The object of my affection
by scarlet dragon
Summary: Denethor's p.o.v. deleted the sneak preview, because it didn't make sense anymore. R
1. Flower of the Seaward Vales

Disclaimer: do not own any of mr. Tolkien's characters, for they are his. If any other characters show up that are not his, then they are most likely to be mine. Well, that ought to do it.

The object of my affection

Part one Flower of the seaward vales 

"Denethor loved her, in his fashion, more dearly than any other, unless it were the elder of the sons that she bore him."

_J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, appendix A: The Stewards_

There was, of course, no need for a second child to be born. But fait thought otherwise, and set her mind in favour of it. And so it was, that Faramir was born. The celebrations lasted exactly three days and three nights. The people of Gondor were elated that their steward had been blessed with not one, but two healthy sons to secure the continuance of the Steward-line. Gifts came in from all kinds of places. A lot of important people came to visit, thinking this the ideal moment for some old-fashioned networking. 

The hall was crowded with men of high-ranking and their spouses, chatting merrily of things that, for once, had nothing to do with state affairs. Even the otherwise grave-looking monoliths had taken on an air of good cheer. The air felt rich with glee and laughter. Today was the last day of celebration, tomorrow it was back to business. 

_Regretfully_, Denethor thought to himself, as he looked around the crowded hall. Tomorrow, it would be silent again. Silence, interrupted by regular intervals of serious meetings, conferences, arguments. It didn't do the place any good, he decided. This happiness was what it needed to breath. What he needed, though not being an active participant in said happiness. He listened, rather than talked. Read, rather then wrote. In most things, he seemed to himself a rather passive man. But this was not completely true. Denethor was a very committed statesman, who kept a close watch on Gondor and its many affairs. Quick to read other peoples minds. 

Yet, that last thing brought him more disappointment and discomfort than that it brought him pleasure. Disappointment mostly in other peoples way of thinking, or their abilities. He had found, for one thing, that some were unable to read and write. This, at least in the beginning, shocked him. As a young boy he had thought that everyone could read and write, that it was a necessity for all to be well acquainted with the books and parchments that told tales of the kings of old. Instead, most people had heard them from their parents or grand-parents, who had heard from their parents, and so on. The boy had been slightly appalled at this, but the man had learned to accept it. There was very little he could do about it, Steward though he was. People didn't have the time to learn it, all their time being occupied by either trade, or farming, or both. Most of the children learned a bit of reading, but soon had to drop out of school because they had to work, or because it was simply too expensive. This grieved Denethor to no end, because he knew from experience that age did not improve ones skill to learn, but rather diminished it. Most of the aristocracy, however, possessed some skill in letters and that cheered him up a bit. It had to start somewhere. 

He smiled and looked at his wife. This was the first day that she was out of bed. Giving birth to young Faramir had taken a lot out of her, and she hadn't been feeling very good for a long while either. She said it was the pregnancy, but the Steward doubted that. He had seen in her eyes that yearning to be away. Not from him. Not particularly, anyway. He knew his silence sometimes annoyed her. No, what she missed was the salt in the air. The penetrating smell of the sea, the reassuring sound of the waves. There was no sea here, only the river Anduin flowing through Osgiliath. A city under constant siege of enemy forces. 

Also, the darkness that lay across the river tugged at her fragile form, and slowly diminished her to an empty shell. It was beginning to show now in her features, as it had before in her looks. Yet she never complained about it. Never mentioned it, either, which he found disturbing. He was her husband, after all. Wasn't she obliged to tell him? His mind said 'yes', his hart said 'no' and his soul settled uncomfortably on the wooden stool in between. It was often like that, when he thought about her. He loved her, he loved her so much. She and Boromir were dear to his hart. _Ah, but what about the youngest. What about Faramir?_ The little voice inside his head asked. Hmmm. He was instantly disgusted with himself. _This is your son, and all you can utter is: hmmm!_ He silently cursed himself. Though Faramir had been a bit of an accident, he didn't regret it one bit. He had been a product of love, and therefore just as welcome as Boromir, who's coming was a bit more forced than that of his younger brother. Producing an heir was what really mattered back then. Should he then love Boromir less? 

Impossible. That little boy had stolen his heart ever since he first laid eyes on him. Something nobody could ever imagine; Denethor, Steward of Gondor, melting into a puddle. He chuckled as silently as he could, because he couldn't really hold it back but didn't want everyone to hear. Some things are best kept to oneself.      

'My lord?' She had sneaked up behind him. How did she do that? 

'Yes, dearest?'. He answered.

'May I be excused from further celebrations? My head aches and I am weary.'

'Of course. A nights' rest will do you good. Is young Boromir asleep?'

'They both are.'

'. yes.' He kissed her hand. 'Goodnight, dearest.'

'Goodnight.' 

He silently swore at himself for leaving the youngest out again.

That night, when at last he had the hall to himself again, he decided to check up on his offspring. He walked through a door, into a long hallway and then up a flight of stairs. He opened the door to his oldest son's bedroom. Boromir was already asleep. All this celebration had taken a lot out of him. People were constantly asking him about his brother, and he was never too tired to tell them how wonderful it was to have one. They could go riding together. And when they were old enough, they could go hunting and shoot a deer for father to eat at a banquet. 

Everyone had found it quite endearing, the way Boromir was going on about his brother. Denethor had found it remarkable. From now on, he would have to share his father's attention with his brother. But Boromir didn't mind sharing. He loved his brother dearly, and would always be looking after him. When people were standing around Faramir's crib, the little boy would always warn them not to make the baby cry, or he would be very angry with them. But as he lay sleeping there, anger seemed to be the last thing on Boromir's mind. 

With a smile on his face, Denethor closed the door. Opposite Boromir's room lay the nursery, where Faramir was now sound asleep. An hour before he had been crying, but the nanny had fed and comforted him and all was silent once more. 

Finduilas had found it difficult at times to leave her son, and now sons, in the care of a nanny. But it was common knowledge that the lady of Gondor was not supposed to raise her children or take much care of them at all. She did, though she would never let her husband know, care for them very often. To pass her believes on to her sons was what she really wanted, not to let some nanny raise them. It wasn't a bad nanny, just not one who would contribute much to the children's learning experience. No, that had to come from their mother. She heard the footsteps of her husband as he opened the door to the older boy's bedroom.

Silently closing the door.opening another door.

In the nursery, all was quiet. The nanny slept behind a door in the back of the room, which was ajar. The baby slept soundly in his cradle. The soft rush of the wind outside. It was peaceful. The way the moon lighted up the young boy's features. Yet, Denethor's feelings for his youngest son were unchanged. He loved him, but something was in the way. He just couldn't decide what it was, exactly. He closed the door and went to bed. His lady was already asleep, but moving now and then in her sleep as if running away.

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Dark dreams troubled her, that would not go away no matter how hard she screamed at them. And in those dreams there were horrible faces leering at her from all sides. Pulling at her dress, clawing at her face. She would try to run away from them, but they were everywhere, endless seas of faces. Some old, some young. Just when she thought she had got away, they were there again. But this time, they were not human. High pitched noises came from under black hoods, as they came towards her. Whispering fowl things of death, mutilation, rape. What was to come, they said. The end of Men. They whispered of suicide, they whispered of hunger and disease. 

_And then there was the silence. And the heat. She remembered the heat most of all. She would turn around, and would see it burning in the distance. The great eye, that looked right at her. Sucking her into it's black oval-shaped Iris._

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	2. View

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, for they are J.R.R. Tolkien's and his alone.**

**A/N I have thought of another concept. What if Denethor had actually let his guard down a bit to much? Where is it said that Finduilas never looked in the stone? Exciting, is it not?**

_View_

It had been a while since he had last looked into it. Not since he had had the feeling, at least more than usual, that it looked back at him. Stared, more like. A strange feeling, washing over him like a wave of algae. His fingers felt like they were being pulled ever deeper into the depth of the sphere. It had been quite difficult for him to break the lock it held on him, and he could not arouse himself for quite some time to look into it again. 

And today, he would finally take the risk. Climbing the winding staircase up the tower. The small door, its frame lit by incoming sunlight. Denethor locked the door behind him, and took a little time regaining his breath. He now found himself in a sunlit room. The walls were hardly adorned by anything, except for a tapestry with the line of the kings embroidered on it. On the other side of the room hung a different tapestry, one much newer, with the line of the house of the Stewards on it. Denethor had always had a fondness for that particular one. Namely because of the way he had come by it in the first place.

The Steward was often seen as a very precise man. Someone who could spot an error a mile away. So when the tapestries were made, he had kept a close eye on the correctness of them, in ways of stitching, proper lineage and of course correct spelling. All the tapestries were in order, save one. The seamstress who had sowed this one, had made a small mistake. Instead of saying Denethor the second, it said Denethor the third was father of Boromir ( it had been made before the birth of Faramir). Although he probably should have been vexed at this, Denethor had found it rather flattering. That the Stewards would last as long as to be able to have a Denethor the third. He certainly hoped so. He had, of course, given the seamstress a stern look. The poor girl had been in tears the whole afternoon, it was said. This had not been the steward's intent. He had felt sorry, but now it bothered him little. There were more important things to consider.

He pondered a while. Maybe this was not the time. He still had his lady and children to think of. And was she not sick, and in need of his help? He turned around and made his way to the door, when he felt that same strength that had held him before pull him back to the centre of the room. There, under a cloth embroidered with the symbol of the Stewards, lay the palantír. It was waiting for him. 

_Come, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, and rest your wearied head. See what none other can see. Have knowledge far beyond that of normal men. Come, and be released from ignorance._

It was done. The steward approached it with some care, yet not as much as was probably needed. He lifted the cloth, folded it and placed it carefully on a nearby stool. There it was, in all its splendour. Denethor placed his fingers carefully on the palantír and concentrated on seeing the western borders of his land. The sea, stretching out before him. The mountains. It reminded him once more what beauty he had inherited. His spirits where somewhat lightened, as he replaced the cloth over the seeing stone. It had been easy to wield it. No struggle, not that nasty tugging sensation he had experienced just moments before. All seemed calm. And then it hit him.

_I cannot send her back to sea, but why could she then not see it here? It could provide her with the peace she needs. And she will be well again, and stand proudly by my side. So we can once again be lord and lady._

It had been a stroke of luck, that he had just now thought of it. This would do Finduilas some good, to be sure. To see her homeland, her kin, again without having to actually go there. A stroke of brilliance. All he should do now is see to it that she did. 


	3. Aid

_Aid _

'Dearest, there is something I would like to show you. Something that will help you recover.'

She was paler than a couple of days ago. She would not eat or drink much. She couldn't. her stomach deserted her every single time. Denethor looked down on the carcass that used to be his beautiful wife. His lady. Now she was more like a ghost.

He send all her nurses away, anxious for a private conversation. 

'Dearest, flower of my heart, I have found a cure for your illness. I came upon it by mere chance, but I think it will do you good.'

'My sweet, I am afraid there is nothing that can heal me. Let me meet my end without suffering or worry.'

He took her hands in his. There were like paper, so thin. So breakable. Her sweet face was aged. Or so it seemed. Her beautiful eyes had made way for hollow depths. Dark, but for the slight gleam emitting from what once had been so powerful. Now suppressed by the darkness that radiated ever from the east.

'But you will see your family again, dearest, and the wild shores you hold so dear.' He would persuade her, even if it killed him. He would not let her die. He wouldn't.

'Is it the stone, that you speak of, my sweet?' She asked.

'Yes.'

'Then I am afraid it has misled you. It has not the power to cure, only to see. I am sorry, but it will only cast me further into darkness, for I have not the power to wield it as you have. All it will show me is despair.'

He felt his world fall apart. He had been so sure of his right, and now it was cast into shadow. And his lady along with it.

'Then what will you have me do?' he asked, with all the strength he could muster.

'I want to see my sons.'

He send some servant to fetch them for her. Finduilas made an effort to sit up, not show to much weakness to her sons. She would have them remember her as the strong woman she once was, not the miserable skeleton she knew she had become. It had been only some minutes before the servant returned with Boromir and Faramir. They were only five years apart, yet the difference in stature was amazing. Boromir had always been tall and strong for his age, whereas Faramir had always been comparatively short and even rather skinny. Not that he wasn't fed well, he just didn't have Boromir's complexion and strength. When Boromir was playing outside with the other children, Faramir had spent his time inside, devising stories and playing on his own. This had given him a pale look. In fact, seeing him and his mother together, Denethor was almost convinced they would both die, being so alike in skin colour as they were now. Except for the fact that Faramir radiated health, and his lady did not.

'Children, come closer and listen carefully. Your mother is not doing very well, so you must behave in the best way possible. Understood?'

'Yes father.'

'Yes, father, of course.'

They now approached the bed. Finduilas put on her best poker face, pretending to be more healthy than she was.

'Children, listen to me. It will not be long, until I go. I do not wish to, but have no choice in the matter. I'm sorry to have to leave you so soon.'

'Where are you going, madam?' Faramir asked.

'A place we shall all go to, when our lives on this earth have come to an end.'

'But why? Have you done something wrong?'

'No, dearest, it's just mommy's time to leave, and...'

'But you don't have to.' Boromir interjected. ' We don't want you to leave, do we father?'

The Steward took a deep breath.' No, we do not wish mommy to leave.'

'Then why does she go, I do not understand!' 

'No one does, dearest,' Finduilas answered in barely more than a whisper.' These things just happen, and it is not up to us to give the answers. We can merely guess at it's purpose, and hope some good will come of it in the end.'

Then they were silent. The boys hugged their mother, afraid that, if they let go, she would fly out the window. Then, they were led out of the room, and back to their bedrooms. Denethor, however, remained. What he and his lady spoke of, shall not be revealed here, for conversations like that are of such a personal nature, that recording them would do them no honour. The next morning, she was found stone cold in her bed. The light in her eyes had gone out for good.

The funeral had been one worthy of a king. People from far and wide had gone out to pay their last respects to the fair and kind lady of Gondor. Songs of lamentation were sung, tears were shed and sadness was everywhere. Adrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth, and his family were present at his daughters funeral. Adrahil and Denethor sat together afterwards, and spoke of things all together different from the present tragedy. Until they could stand it no more.

'Why did you not set up your throne elsewhere, farther away from the danger that threatens to overthrow Middle-earth?' Adrahil demanded. 

Denethor did not answer.

'It was the shadow that drove my daughter away from all she held dear. Have you any idea what sorrow your stubbornness has caused?' the prince said, arising from his seat.

Silence.

'I HAVE BURIED MY CHILD TODAY! MY FLOWER, MY JEWEL, MY EVERYTHING! AND YOU JUST SIT THERE, AND SAY NOTHING!'

'What can I say, to make your suffering lessen? What comfort have I to give you, when I have just buried my wife? The one more precious to me than all else?'

The two men looked at one another.

'There I no comfort in this world to lighten this burden for any of us. There is only the hope that one day we may see her again. But now, we are cast into a darkness that can only be caused by death. And here we shall remain, until acceptance sets in, and we return to everyday life with not more than an ache of what had once been ours, but is lost.'

'So we must be alone, then. Locked up.'

'So it seems.'

And with that, they went their separate ways. 


	4. Helper and Protector

Chapter two 

**Helper and protector**

' Yet he felt in his heart that Faramir, though he was much like his brother in looks, was a man of less self-regarding, both sterner and wiser.'

Frodo's view on Faramir. Exerpt from _The Two Towers, book IV, chapter five._

_The whispering of the wind against my ears. The soft rustling of leaves. The sun shining on my face.  Today it is sunny, as it hasn't been for many days before. _

_Yet, it does little for my own comfort. _

_The shadow moves ever westwards, and clouds my mind. I feel lonely, and silently I fear the loneliness. It has been two years, but the loss of my wife still pains me as strongly as if it were but yesterday that she passed from this world. My sons seem to have recovered, though. I can see them from the tower as I work._

_My oldest son, Boromir, is practising his sword-skills. His sword-master says he's improving rapidly. He has great strength for one so young. My youngest, Faramir, does not improve that much. His teacher told me yesterday, he has little interest in taking up the sword. He misses his brother's enthusiasm in battle, not to mention he hasn't the built for it. And now, he has the notion in his head to be a historian in his later days. I told him, as patiently as I could, that this wasn't an option. The great sons of Gondor can be historians in their own time, but they are the heirs of Gondor before all else. The guiding lights of a nation. A nation on the edge of a dangerous land that poses a continual threat to the very existence of Men, Elves and other races that inhabit this Middle-Earth. And besides, what good is history if you do not life to see it and record it?_

_The boy seemed to understand, but I still catch him in the library at times. Going through old scrolls, learning an Elven-tongue or dreaming away when staring out the window at some invisible place or other. I just can't understand what moves him, though he is much like me at times. The way he looks at people like looking through them scares me as much as it interests me. He feels less like a son, and more like a stranger in my own home the more I dare think upon it. Yet he is my son, and Boromir's younger brother. There is a lot of brotherly love between them, and Boromir is always ready to defend him when the older boys scold him for making an impertinent remark about something they said. In a way, I suppose they are both brave young men. So happy in their youth and innocence. They have not seen what I have seen, and I hope they never will…_

' Faramir! Brother! Come here!' 

A young boy looked up and smiled at his older brother. When Boromir was this excited, something interesting was definitely afoot. He stood up, put down the scroll he had been reading and ran towards his anxious-looking brother.

' What is it, brother? Have you caught something for dinner?' 

The older boy smiled.

' No, still no stag. Not even a skunk or a small bird! We'll just have to make do with what we usually have.'

The young boy seemed disappointed.

' Then, what were you so anxious about? Not another dead orc, I hope? They smell horrible, war-trophy or not.'

At this, Boromir laughed heartily. He messed up his brother's hair. The young boy laughed and jumped back out of harm's way.

' No, little brother. This is something you will enjoy. He's back.' 

' You mean…?'

' Yes, him. Mithrandir is in his quarters right now, and he would like to speak with you.' 

The young boy was overjoyed by this news, and he ran immediately to meet his friend. The man who had looked down on this scene merely turned away from the window to work again. Boromir saw this. _So strange_, he thought to himself. _He is our father, yet he can not love us both_. 

Faramir ran down some stairs, passing guards and merchants on the way. He took turns here and there, walked up other flights of stairs till, at last, he reached his destination. He knocked on the door. He heard shuffling within, and after a short period the door opened to reveal an old man in grey robes. He had a twinkle in his eyes and a big grey beard. Faramir walked up to him and gave him a hug.

' Mithrandir! I have missed you much since you last came here. Why did you not send word of your coming, so I could've been at the gates to welcome you?'

The old man laughed.

' Please, master Faramir, I am not worthy of such a welcome. Knowing you, I probably would've seen the entire guard of the citadel at the gates to give me a royal welcome. I would rather have peace when I arrive.'

'I wouldn't have used the whole guard! Only two columns. That wouldn't have been a royal welcome at all. More like a' hello, nice to see you are still breathing!' kind of welcome.' 

At this, Mithrandir smiled. He motioned for the boy to sit down at the only table in the small room that was the wizard's quarters. As Faramir sat down, Mithrandir searched for his pipe.

' I'm joyous to see you in such high spirits. I hope your brother is well?' 

' As well as can be expected. He practises a lot with the sword these days. He seems to like it, though I think he does it in part to please father.'

' Possible. How is your father these days?' 

Faramir fell silent. When at length he spoke, his voice was strangely flat.

' I see so little of him these days. And when I do, he hardly speaks to me. If he does speak to me, though, it is mostly to scold me or ask me about Boromir. He seems to care little for my welfare, if he cares at all.' 

' Such harsh words.' The old man had taken out his pipe, and was peacefully blowing smoke-rings.' Your father cares for you, Faramir. Though not as openly as he does for your brother. He was never a man of many words, and that has not changed over the years. There is much to see in his looks, Faramir.'

The boy sighed, and looked at the ground.

'I see nothing but contempt in those looks. He looks at me like I'm otherworldly. Like we are not even kin. Does he really love me, Mithrandir?'

' Yes, he does. Do not ever doubt that! You are his son, Faramir. If he had a choice of you dying or him, he would give his life to protect you.'

' Willingly?' The boy said, doubt sounding in his voice.

' Of course.' The wizard answered.

The young boy's face brightened a bit as he looked up at his friend. The wizard got up from his seat.

' I just made a nice pot of tea. Would you like to join me, Faramir?' 

' Yes, please! And then you must tell me of all the places you have visited since you were away. Have you visited the elves again? I love to hear stories about them! You make them sound so wonderful and strong!'

' Then I shall tell you a story from when I was young.' The wizard said, as he sat down on the wooden chair opposite Faramir's.

' Were you ever young?'  The boy said, his voice filled with mock disbelief.

The wizard laughed, as he gave Faramir a hot cup of tea. They sat together till the sun hit the ground and it was Faramir's time to go home for dinner. They waved their goodbye's as the young boy ran back to the citadel. When, at last, he arrived he turned out to be late. His father scolded him, and Faramir did his best to hold back his tears during dinner. He did not apologise, for it was of little use. His father would just look at him with those stern eyes and tell him that excuses were meaningless since the damage had already been done. Sometimes, he would get angry and think bad thoughts about his father. He tried not to, though, because the only one who would feel bad then would be himself. He would just hide out in the library, as usual, until the feeling would pass. 

He ate his dinner swiftly, excused himself and took the many flights of stairs to what he called "his refuge". It was a corner in the library that even his father didn't know about. He had often found interesting literature lying there. Sometimes, it would be a historic tale of a battle. Or poetry. Sometimes a journal. What was strange, though, was that he never found the same things laying there. Someone would place things there for him to read. Or so Faramir thought. He never complained, though, since whomever did this knew exactly what the young boy wanted to read. _Imagine, someone I don't even know is better acquainted with my interests and tastes then my own father_! Faramir thought glumly. But this feeling soon passed, as he became enraptured in one of the scrolls that he had found laying there this time.

Late again! Well, at least he doesn't make excuses this time. I can already guess what they are. He was with Mithrandir, and he completely forgot about the time! It is always like that. 

_Not that it surprises me in the least, since I am not much of a father to him as this Grey Pilgrim that continually haunts me with advice or evil tidings. Not that anything he says tells me things that I have not already seen for myself. He beautifies the horrible things that happen. Wraps them up in a pink cloud. Him and his sugary web. I know what he's hiding! I've known it all along. But he will not ensnare me that easily with sugar-coated stories and fairy-tales. I know what sinister plan he has yet to unravel before me. _

_And I shall be waiting for it. _

_I will not be supplanted by some ranger from the North!  _ 


	5. Feel In the tower

Feel 

Dark. The night was dark. Not the peaceful dark of a moonlit night, though, but a pressing dark. A twelve-year old boy lay on his bed. He was supposed to be asleep, but he was too much awake to do so. Today had been a good day. His teacher had been happy to see his progress. He had been practising hard and it showed in his moves. 

He stood up, and stretched a bit. In the candle-light we can see his muscles. They would've been more suitable for someone six years this boy's major, but he didn't seem to notice that. He looked out of the window, into the dark night. There was one light, coming from the high tower of the White City. Boromir sighed. _Why is father always working? _He thought to himself. _I miss him. Not to mention Faramir does._

His thoughts were disturbed by a soft knock on the door. It opened to reveal a scrawny-looking boy of seven.

'Hello, little brother. Did no sleep come to you, as well?'

the younger boy nodded.

' I couldn't stop thinking of mother. I understand her better now, I think.'

Boromir sat down on his bed and motioned for his brother to sit down next to him.

' Would you share your thoughts with me? I would love to hear them.'

Faramir drew a deep breath, as if he was going to plunge himself head-first into a deep pool.

' Mother was lonely. She was surrounded by people, but still lonely.'

The older boy thought on this awhile. 

' You are probably right. We were watching her as she slowly pined away, and we did nothing. I still feel her around me. Her words bring comfort to me, yet I feel guilty.'

Faramir nodded in agreement. They said nothing for a while. At length, Faramir spoke.

' I wonder if father feels any pain over her death. He is so silent. We can never mention her around him, and he looks at us and says we should not think on her anymore. That she is gone.'

' He feels it just as strongly as we do, if not stronger. He loved her. I remember something from a long time ago. You were hardly two years old at the time. They talked about the daily problems at first. I saw him holding her hand. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed. That was the last time I ever heard her laughter, as she fell slowly into shadow. I just…'

Boromir stopped when he heard a silent sniffing next to him. Faramir's eyes were silently spilling tears that made their way down his cheek, to fall neatly in his lap. Boromir put his arms around his brother and held him. He rocked his brother to and fro, like he had seen his mother do when Faramir was sad.

In the tower 

_Stop looking at me! _

_I know your plans, and they will not succeed. Do not even try to lure me with your false promises of a better future, when all you will show me is pain._

_What?_

_No, I am not afraid of you. Do not even think that. I am my own master and I shall do as I please!_

_Just hear me talking to you like a spoiled child. What is the matter with me? Why does this evening ring so strangely in my ears? What have you to show me that will enlighten my spirits?_

The orb glowed dim in the light of the candles. A man sat at his desk in the adjourning room. The door connecting that room with the other was open. Denethor remembered closing it himself, but bit didn't surprise him anymore. Stranger things had happened in this tower. 

When he looked, sometimes the orb would show him strange women. Beautiful to behold. Their hair falling down their naked backs, their smiles enticing him. They were unaware of him looking at them. They would sit near the pool and brush each other's hair. They would talk in a foreign tongue, making their words drip from their tongues like honey. Sweet nectar of doom, it had proved to be. Every time Denethor had hoped to see them he had found only destruction, distress, pain. The orb seemed to know his mind, and would seduce him into looking. 

And so it was this night.

He stood up from his desk. _No, don't go! What will I bring you but despair!'  _The small voice in his head was overpowered by the will to gaze into the pitch-black depth. He walked towards the orb and placed his hands over it. He would concentrate on where he wanted to look. 

_I am Denethor, son of Ecthelion, steward of Gondor. Bend to my will, seeing-stone!_

_There…soldiers. Where are they coming from? I can seen them clearly. Haradrim. I should've known the dark one would start to gather a host. This is just the beginning. Another heavy blow awaits Gondor._

_Wait! Who is that figure sitting proudly in the king's throne? He looks familiar to me in some way._

_Ah! Now I see! That Ranger again. And his grey protector holding the invisible strings behind the throne. Power-hungry wizard! I shall keep an eye on you. You shall not move without me knowing about it._

_Where am I? It's dark here._

**_' I can seen you Denethor, steward of a dead people!'_**

****

****

****

Denethor stood up. He had fallen it seemed, though he couldn't remember falling. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise. Denethor felt relieved when he saw the light. He thought about the last time had seen a sunrise. How long had it been? Years?

When Faramir woke up the sun was just beginning to rise. He looked out the window to enjoy the splendour of new light. As he looked down he saw a tall, proud figure standing at the edge of the large platform that stretched beneath him. The sunlight was playing a game with his features, making it look like he radiated light.

Father? 


	6. Decay

DECAY

'Come to me, my dear! Long have I waited for you, and my patience grows thin. Come to me now, so we can be one again…'

No, I shall not yield. You will not seduce me with these empty words, promising though they might seem!

**'Poor steward, I have done you ill, haven't I? Left you all alone, did I? No, I am always here. I yearn to be with you. That is my purpose. And what, if I may be so bold, is life without a purpose? Come here…'**

Leave me…

The sun shone again. It had passed. At least, for now. The Steward looked up from his desk. There was still the imprint of random objects on his forehead. It gave the Steward a headache. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching. He heard the door open.

'Finduilas?'

A boy answered.

'No, father. It is your youngest son, Faramir. If it is convenient, I would like to speak with you.'

'It is not convenient. It never is. You always have this habit of showing up at the worst possible moment. At trait your mother possessed in just as great an amount. Take a seat, boy.'

Faramir sat down in a chair opposite the Steward's desk. He looked at his father with pleading eyes. Denethor recognised the look. His wife had thrown it at him on more then one occasion. He hated that look, because it had always rendered him helpless. With Faramir, however, he had just found it annoying. He didn't seem to be too comfortable either.

'Father, I would like to read the scroll of Isildur.'

Denethor stared. This was strange. How would the boy know of the scroll? 

Of course! 

Mithrandir.

The look on his face must not have been a very pleasant one, since Faramir had edged back a little from the table.

'Have I said something wrong, father? I didn't know...'

'No, you did not,. and stop making excuses for yourself. You know how it aggravates me.'

'So… yes father…'

'You may read it, if you tell me why.'

'I'm interested in the history of the Great Kings. For some reason, it feels a bit like going home…'

'You are home. Do not speak nonsense in front of your father.'

'Yes, father.'

'Go ahead, then. If you sincerely wish to do so, then read it! I shall not stop you.'

The boy smiled and bowed. Then ran as quickly and quietly as he could out of that dank office. He passed another room on the way. The door was open. Faramir was in nature a very curious boy, so he looked inside. The room was empty, except for some tapestries and a strange object that lay hidden under a cloth on an altar in the middle of the room. Faramir walked towards it cautiously. It was drawing him to it. It smelled familiar…like… something he had known long ago, but forgot. He extended his arm, and pulled away the cloth. 

The black orb underneath sparkled anew in the sunlight, and Faramir could sense its power. It scared him, but the orb wouldn't let go. It dragged him ever closer, until Faramir could smell the decay of flesh.

**'Come here, young boy, and let me ease your pain. Until the end…'**

'FATHER!'

Denethor jumped up and ran towards the door, which had been closed the moment Faramir screamed. He pressed against it with all his might, but the door wouldn't budge. He kicked against it, slammed his fists on it, yelled at it but nothing would help. Faramir's screaming turned into quiet sobs, and then into silence. Through the door, Denethor could hear the boy being smothered. He leaned against the door and wept.

**'Poor, weak Steward. So easily taken over by your own darkness…'**

Where am I? What happened?

Denethor blinked as his eyes were getting used to the sunlight. No, this must be another dream. Or not? He didn't know anymore. He listened for footsteps in the corridor, was relieved when none reached his ears and went back to work. The incident had hidden itself, waiting for an opportunity to present itself anew. 

The slow decay of the steward.  


End file.
